


This Game We Play

by SailorChibi



Series: Dub Con RolePlay [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondage, M/M, Rape Fantasy, Role Playing, dub con, really you'd think Greg would know better, walking in on Sherlock and John is a crap idea, yup it's just an excuse for more smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:24:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg walks in on Sherlock raping John. But is that really what's going on?</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Game We Play

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> This is tagged as rape/non-con even though it is technically not. Regardless, it may be triggering. You've been warned!
> 
> For another [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=123326703#t123326703) on the kink meme, of course. I read it and had to laugh, because my god this fandom is a deliciously cruel bunch. I love you all!

Sally warned him when she caught him leaving the building. She'd known where he was going as soon as she saw him, not needing his look of guilt or the folder tucked under his arm to figure it out. "Don't do it," she'd said, crossing her arms. "The freak will make us all miserable: you'll be in a rotten mood, Anderson will sulk and I'll be the one who gets insulted. Just don't. Can't we try to solve one bloody case without him?"

Her words had merit, still do, but this case is one of those ones that practically scream Sherlock Holmes, like somewhere up there is a god who spends his free time coming up with cases that are meant to be solved by an arsehole of a detective. So he'd merely given her a look and sent her on her way and headed over to 221b Baker Street. The whole way, Greg had wondered to himself if maybe Sally was right and he should be encouraging his team to rely more on their own skills and not Sherlock. But if the man could solve a case in a quarter of the time and put a serial rapist away behind bars before any more victims were caught, well, it's pretty hard to argue with that.

It would be much easier to argue now, considering that he has been nicely tied up and is watching said man rape his best friend.

Okay. Okay, look, it started like this:

Mrs Hudson answers the door when Greg knocks. She looks happy to see him just like always, her kind old face lighting up as she fusses over him, making note of how "dreadfully thin and peaky" he looks. She tries to get him into her flat to have a nice cup of tea and some biscuits but, as appealing as that sounds, Greg has to turn her down. He feels like a right bastard when her expression crumbles and before he knows it he's promising to swing by on his next day off so that she can stuff him as full of homemade biscuits as she likes. She beams, disappointment forgotten, and retreats into her flat leaving him with the feeling that he might have been played. Though if it results in a free home cooked meal he's not going to protest much.

"Sherlock around?" he says right before she closes the door.

"Hmm. I think so. Can't tell so much anymore now that they try to make use of the upstairs bedroom instead," she says, a twinkle in her eyes. "But I believe that neither of them has left since John came home. I was just about to pop out to the shops."

"Don't let me keep you." Greg smiles at her and continues up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He's lifted his hand to knock when he hears a thudding sound and then someone groaning. He stares at the door for a second, wondering if he just heard what he thought he did. And then, yes, it comes again, a deeper, throaty sound that instantly makes his cheeks turn pink. Bloody hell. He's not walking in on that; he'll send a text and wait for Sherlock to come to him. He starts to turn away and that's when he hears it.

"Sherlock, please. Don't." John's voice is high and tremulous, not at all like the good doctor that Greg is used to. The tone is easily recognizable: panic bordering on fear. He turns back and begins to listen more intently.

"Stop fighting me, John. This is going to happen whether you want it to or not."

"But - you can't just... Sherlock!"

"I've seen the way you watch me. I know you want this."

"Not... Not like this! Sherlock, stop! Please, _no_."

That's about all Greg needs to hear. Maybe it's a joke or something totally unrelated to what he's thinking, but he'll never forgive himself if he walks away and it's not. His hand finds the doorknob and twists and surprisingly it moves beneath his fingers, and a light shove opens the door entirely. Greg will never forget what he sees next. John is on the sofa, lying on his belly, though his face has been twisted to the side so he can breathe. His hands have been pinned behind his back and Sherlock is tying them with quick, efficient movements with what appears to be either his belt or John's. He's straddling John, one leg braced against the floor. Both of them turn towards the door when it opens and for a second everyone freezes.

"What the fuck?" Greg says dumbly, too shocked to do anything but stare. He's never believed what people say about Sherlock Holmes. He's always known that Sherlock is a good man somewhere underneath the sociopathic persona he likes to share with the general public. And he credits that as the reason that even when Sherlock jumps off of the couch he doesn't react until the man is nearly within reach.

"Lestrade, how good of you to join us," Sherlock purrs.

"What - Sherlock!" He fumbles for his handcuffs but it's too late. Sherlock can move bloody quickly when he wants to and Greg is exhausted, hungry and still sore from a bad fall while chasing a criminal down by the docks. Even though Sherlock wasn't there he's obviously deduced the bruises as he stays entirely on Greg's right side and his hands, though subduing, remain oddly gentle. Greg tries to fight back but part of him is still reeling and it's useless: in an embarrassingly short amount of time he's been handcuffed and tied to a chair with another belt.

"There," says Sherlock, standing back and surveying his work with a smirk. "I wouldn't want you to interfere before I've had my fun." He turns and stalks back to John, who begins to squirm in terror. Sherlock runs one of his fingers down John's spine and makes a thoughtful sound, then slides his hands under the waistband of John's trousers and begins tugging them down. John isn't wearing any pants underneath, the poor sod, and his bare arse is swiftly exposed to the room. John makes a pitiful sound and buries his head in the sofa.

“Sherlock, what the fuck are you doing?” Finally Greg feels like he’s catching up with the situation, though he’s painfully aware that it’s too late to do anything. He shakes his wrists, testing the grip of the cuffs, but of course they’re good and tight.

“I’m taking what’s mine. Keep quiet, Lestrade.” He pulls John around and bends him over the arm, shoving his upper body against the cushions of the couch, forcing him to stand with his arse in the air, and then he unzips his trousers. His cock is fully hard and glistening with a fat drop of pre-come. Greg’s eyes are frozen to the long, thick shaft and he can’t look away. Sherlock catches him looking and grins, slowly pumping his hand up and down the shaft three times, pushing the foreskin up and then letting it slide back. More pre-come drools down across his fingers and he looks ready to come without any more stimulation.

“Sherlock, please,” John begs then, shifting his legs. The position must be murder on his shoulder. He lets out a whimper when Sherlock lets go of his cock and grips his hips instead. He tries to struggle away but he can’t get any traction. “ _Don’t_!”

Sherlock ignores the helpless pleas, lining his cock up and shoving in so roughly that Greg cringes. John cries out with a strangled moan, sounds painful, and goes limp, pressing his face to the cushions. That doesn’t do much to prevent Greg from hearing his muffled cries, though. Horrified by what he’s seeing, he knows he should be doing something – anything – to get free but he can’t think of anything. Mrs Hudson’s gone out and it’s the middle of the day, no one would hear him yelling or pounding his feet. Sherlock’s not stupid, he’s planned this intentionally, Greg just happened to be the one thing he couldn’t have thought of.

John makes a strange squealing sound and Greg looks up. Sherlock has pulled back and is now fucking him hard with short, brutal strokes that make John’s whole body bounce with the impact. The sofa squeaks as it’s shoved across the floor, leaving scrapes behind, and Sherlock grunts, his hands finding new purchase on John’s thighs as he begins roughly yanking John back into every thrust, shoving into him so deep that John must be feeling it in his belly. Greg’s throat feels hot and swollen and to his horror, as his gaze fixes on Sherlock’s face he can feel himself starting to harden. Rapist or not Sherlock is a fucking gorgeous creature in the middle of an orgasm and it’s fucking beautiful, making his body respond against his will.

“Jesus,” he whispers, hardly aware he’s uttering the word, and Sherlock looks over at him. The second their eyes meet he slams back into John, eliciting another whimper, and comes, keeping his eyes locked on Greg the entire time. He only looks away when John whines and arches his back, stretching himself out over John’s body and sinking his teeth deeply into John’s shoulder. It’s a mark of ownership, Greg thinks, stunned as they both fall limp.

The whole room is quiet.

“Sometimes your creativity surprises me, John,” Sherlock murmurs huskily at last. “I’m not sure I would have thought of bringing Lestrade in.”

Another beat of silence.

“Sherlock... I didn’t invite him. I thought you did.”

Sherlock’s head pops up and he looks over his shoulder with such an expression of abject horror that Greg would be amused if it weren’t for what he’s just witnessed. He watches as Sherlock scrambles off of John and can’t help flinching away when Sherlock tries to approach. God, he thinks, god, he’s just raped John and what if Greg’s next? The thought must be visible on his face because Sherlock stops short and his face twists. Without a word he turns to John and grabs the end of the belt, giving it a little tug. The whole thing comes undone in a blink and John straightens up, rubbing at his wrists absently.

“Lestrade,” he says carefully, and then, “Greg, listen. I know what you think you saw but it wasn’t. Sherlock did not rape me.”

“I _know_ what I saw,” Greg says and is mortified when his breath hitches just a little.

“It’s a game,” John says gently. “A stupid game, yes, but there you go, we can’t all indulge in fantasies about hot blonde twins.” He smiles a bit awkwardly. “I like to pretend that Sherlock is... you know... and I thought he’d invited you in to add a little extra realism. Obviously Sherlock thought the same of me and that’s why he tied you up.”

Greg stares at him in disbelief. If this were anyone else he’d think it was conditioning and call it a day. But this is John and Sherlock, quite possibly the weirdest pair of men on the planet, and he can actually kind of believe this explanation, cock and bull though it sounds. He looks at John, studying his face carefully, searching for any signs of a lie. Then he looks at Sherlock, who raises his eyebrows as though he thinks the whole thing is stupid but actually looks a little worried about Greg’s reaction, and honestly Greg doesn’t know what to think because if this is a game it’s pretty bloody realistic.

John must realize he needs more convincing because he says, “I’m telling you, we’ve done this before. I have a safe word, even. It’s... fun.” His cheeks colour in embarrassment and that more than anything convinces Greg that he’s telling the truth.

“You’re both mad,” he says at last and both men relax. “Get over here and get these stupid cuffs off, Sherlock. I know you have a key around somewhere.”

But Sherlock doesn’t move. If anything he looks thoughtful, his gaze sweeping up and down Greg’s body. Finally he says, “John, you told me once that it was customary to apologize when you’ve done something wrong. I think we’ve both frightened our detective inspector a good deal more than he deserved. It would only be proper for us to apologize, right?”

“That’s...” a really fucking appealing idea “not necessary.”

“Oh,” says John, catching on, “I think it is. It’s only polite.” He crosses to stand in front of Greg, softened cock bobbing between his thighs, and in spite of himself Greg can’t keep himself from looking. John smiles, a sweet smile, and reaches out to rub his thumb over Greg’s bottom lip. “How about it? I promise you, this time no games. Just a really good fucking and some of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits afterwards.”

Greg wants to say no.

He really does.

But fuck it, those biscuits sound amazing.

“I’m in,” he says, and sucks John’s thumb into his mouth.


End file.
